


Beastly Marathon

by zrd1155



Series: fanfic contest between my friends [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bestiality, M/M, Marathon, Rare Pairings, not a sex marathon like a running marathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zrd1155/pseuds/zrd1155
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin traipes valliantly through the Mirkwood forest, while a great bear steals his most precious of belongings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beastly Marathon

On most chilly spring mornings, camped in the depths of the Mirkwood forest, Dwalin enjoyed waking to the gentle caress of sunlight on his rough chees, the trickle of dew through his long blue beard or the sound of his brother gracefully massaging the strings of his treble viol. And yet, on this particular morning bathed in a tub of dense ferns and bushes, Dwalin awoke wit a shortness of breath, not unlike the weight of a deep fear weighing down on him. He opened his eyes.  
There was a bear on his chest.  
It looked him in his left eye, the one that had begun to go slightly dim after years of perilous battle and adventure. Then wit naught less than a grin on its face, the bear itself stood up on two pale human legs, flexing its enormous ursine buttocks in an act of mockery.  
“Beorn, you hairy bastard!” Dwalin managed in a groggy state of displeasure. He weezed and coughed, willing the air to return to his lungs, and wondering for what reason, an honourable fellow such as the Bear-man would change to insult a dwarf in such a way. Alas, as soon as the air had returned to the warrior’s lungs, it was once again yanked out. For in the furry mitt of the renegade skin-changer hung the limp body of Dwalin’s most precious and wonderful-marvellous tenor viol. His jaw dropped. He felt light in the head. AS he fell to the ground, he caught a glimpse of Beorn, gallantly galloping away on his naked bear legs.

How long had passed? An hour? Two? Dwalin trampled through the boreal wasteland that lay at the base of the Lonely Mountain, in what may have been, considering the previous night’s heavily wooded festivities, the remnants of a drunken stupor. Squished into the moist soil were the immense footsteps of the bear-creature whom he pursued. Flashes shot through his mind like lightning. His amazingly auburn instrument, laying tattered on the forest floor, the dastardly blackbear standing above it.  
He began to grow tired, and before long, his slow drunken stumble was reduced to a slower drunken stumble. When he swore he could go on no longer, convinced himself that this travesty of lost friends and allies had been a dream, he caught a glimpse of a bear in the distance. Thinking, perhaps wistfully (though he would never admit it to his dwarven comrades) that Beorn had returned for him, he dropped to his knees and lifted his head to the sky in prayer to the ahlls of Aule. Silence ensued. Was that the crackle of paw steps on twigs and dry leaves? No. The ethanol that titillated his brain cells was weighing down on his weary dwarf mind.  
Only when he closed his eyes, did he feel the warm steamy breath of a bear on the back of his thick neck, no doubt belonging to the hot maw of Beorn.  
“You filthy bear-mutt.” Dwalin scoffed, half-heartedly, eyes closed. He could not stand up, could not turn his head, reached for his trusty warhammer only to find that it too had been pickpocketed by his adversary. Damnit all. Beorn licked his neck, slowly, almost painfully, bearing his tongue as he ran away, jeeringly, if not with a mildly seductive air.  
What was this guy’s deal?

On and on they chased, Dwalin stripped of his most prized possessions, and Beorn’s growly-cackles echoing provocatively through the towering trees.  
“Great Aule.” Dwalin screamed at the sky. “What deed have I committed to deserve this?” Though the cold dwarven god did little to aid in his struggle.  
It was during one of these devout monologues that Dwalin stumble into a mudpit and found himself buried up to his gold belt in wet mud. The tip of his long beard trailed in the mud.  
“For god’s sake!” Dwalin yelled, burying his face in his rough, aged hands. Then to his shock (though perhaps not so much), a gentle but gruff voice broke the electrified silence.  
“My love, do speak to me in this way. For this morn, no one is lonely on the Lonely Mountain.”  
Dwalin looked up to find the villain Beorn in not such a villainous state. For the man-bear, legs of a man, torso of a bear, sat quite pleasantly on a pine stump, with nothing but the pleasantry of Dwalin’s tenor viol to obscure his beastly nakedness.  
“This is where we were always meant to be, me dear Dwalin.” Me, you, and nothing but the trees and sky to bear witness.”  
Was that a moan of pleasure or terror that slipped from Dwalin’s lips? All the morning’s stress was wasted away in a wave of euphoria. It was this that he had always dreamed of. His body went limp, his mind numb.  
He breathed, hardly louder than the wind. “Play me a song, dear Beorn.”  
And so it was.


End file.
